The Importance of Being Ezreal
by Zjol
Summary: "No, Noxians do not value love. They value strength." An unlikely relationship forms between a Noxian and a Piltovian despite the aforementioned custom. When love gives way to strength, then, does love not become worthy of value? Draven/Ezreal, Caitlyn/Vi. In-Progress.
1. Chapter 1

**The Importance of Being Ezreal**

_Chapter 1_

"What are you doing up so early?"

Ezreal tugged on his gauntlet and smoothed back his hair, watching himself in Draven's massive wall mirror. "I got summoned," he replied turning away from his reflection.

"You got summoned and I didn't?" Draven grumbled, falling back into the sheets. Ezreal looked at the dishevelled, normally extravagant executioner stretched out on the bed. His hair was a mess of tangled brown waves and his moustache was in an even more sorry state. "Like you didn't look like this when you got up," Draven remarked, catching his gaze and rolling his eyes. "Come here." Draven sat up and wrapped an arm around the explorer as he neared and pressed a hard kiss on his lips.

Ezreal reddened and pulled away. Hands flying away from him as if he burned. "I'm going to be late," he muttered, fixing his bangs hastily.

"Hey," Draven said softly, straightening up further from the bed. The blankets slid off of him, pooling at his waist. "You're not still—"

Ezreal made an appalled frown. "No, of course not," he scoffed. He fiddled with his gauntlet some more. The Noxian squinted, moustache twitching in thought. Ezreal frowned at the sceptical look Draven had and he reached down, taking the man's face in his hands and returned the gesture, though with less vigour. "I'm really going to be late," he said with a huff, turning away to hide his red cheeks. Draven grinned and dusted off the Piltovian's jacket.

"You gonna be able find your way to the Institute?" he drawled, following him to the front door. "Need me to lead the way?" Ezreal turned around with a hand on the lock and gave Draven a dose of his signature skepticism.

"I'm sure I will be fine." He looked up and down at the Noxian before him, taking in his current state of dress. Draven proudly donned a hairy chest and a pair of plain pants for sleep. "You don't look ready to go either. I'll be back before you know it," Ezreal promised.

* * *

Ezreal left the house and quickly descended down the stairs, feeling the chill of the early air. He pulled his jacket tighter and turned the corner, nearly jumping. At least, visibly.

"Morning," Ezreal said automatically. Of course the two brothers lived in the same neighbourhood. Draven would never leave his dear brother alone.

Darius looked him over with a calculating gaze then past him. Ezreal realized the man was putting two and two together.

"Odd," the Noxian grunted, ignoring Ezreal's greeting. He turned, bringing his axe to rest on his shoulder and began walking. "What are you doing here?" The Piltovian mentally translated the question as "Why are steps away coming from my brother's house?" and he was sure the man knew fully well why.

"I got summoned," Ezreal replied, deciding to dodge the question. This game of loaded vague questions had the capacity for two players and he didn't intend to lose.

The Noxian seemed to be taken off guard. As off guard as Darius could be. Which was a raise of a brow. "And now I'm walking to the Institute," Ezreal continued, watching the man warily from the corner of his eye. "And I assume you are, too, unless the Hand of Noxus is known for going on peaceful morning strolls." The air was still, like the world, time, and space around them heard. As soon as those words left his mouth, Ezreal caught the ready glint of his axe. The Piltovian was known for his jabbing quips on the fields, his outlandish boasting, coupled with moments of showing off, but right now, his life isn't measured in bars or protected by magic.

Would the League investigate his death? Notify the kin? Would his body still be recognizable? These were some questions Ezreal wasn't too keen on finding out.

"I have also been summoned," Darius said gruffly after a pause. Ezreal walked, using all of his will to not interrupt, instead, patiently and little bit relieved, waiting for the man to continue, or even elaborate. His determination performed in vain and he was left to conclude Darius wasn't a man of conversation. He also noticed that the man did not press on the issue of Draven. It was likely he was not interested in his brother's life. It's not like the entire League couldn't hear the executioner's bragging miles away. They walked in silence with Darius stalking forwards, his armour clanging against each other, and with Ezreal trailing behind, deep in thought.

* * *

The road to the Institute of War was relatively short as the residential buildings were built to encircle at an approximate 10km from it.

For some, the residential buildings were temporary or secondary residences. For others, these buildings were permanent places called home. There were many shops and restaurants carrying goods and foods from all around Valoran that separate the Institute from the residences. Many can enjoy the comfort of familiar cuisine from their home city-states. Ezreal appreciated the gesture. It was nice having the option of Piltovian food, especially when the homesickness struck. Though the proud explorer would never admit to such thing, because he was an explorer. He's used to leaving home. Or supposed to be.

As they neared the entrance of the Institute, Darius stopped abruptly, his deep red cape fluttering to a stop. The rippling fabric bore many marks of wear and tear, like an intricately woven tapestry of history, darned in places after victories. It was likely that this was the favoured cloak of the general. The man spoke as he lowered his axe from his shoulder, "I'd prefer if you and Draven were to cut ties." Taken aback, Ezreal took a moment to gather himself, but Darius had already ascended the marble stairs swiftly, the maroon fabric catching the wind.

Ezreal glared at his back, unsure of what he had meant. "Hey!" he called. He ran up the steps, taking two at a time. "What do you mean?" Darius turned his head, his eyes black as coal.

"I meant it would be for the better if the two of you stop this foolish game," he said, stopping. "It is already damaging enough to have a garish show-off for a brother; I do not want to be involved with his publicity stunts."

"It's not a publicity stunt," Ezreal seethed. Darius gave him a sceptical look and the explorer was surprised, though in hindsight, he really shouldn't have been, by the glaring similarities between the Blood Brothers.

The Noxian shook his head. "Do not mess with our kind," he pressed. "We do not value such things as love." The man uttered the word like it tasted sour. As he had spat it, he turned again, going up the stairs, his armour ringing loudly. The silver steel reflected the sparse rays of sunlight, though unevenly. The surface was scarred, dented, and seemed as if its wearer had dragged it to Hell and back. Knowing Darius, that assumption was probably made without much exaggeration. The violence and fighting and hardships shone through the Noxian's armour and weapon. Despite the marring imperfections, he carried it with pride. No, Noxians do not value love. They value strength.

Ezreal squeezed his fists tighter and ran after him. He bounded past him, reaching the doors first. He knew he was being immature, but he didn't care. He entered without looking back.

* * *

It had already been few hours when two loud and rapt knocks sounded from Draven's door. The executioner was expecting Ezreal; he had hoped they do some training or sparring later. He felt like brushing up on his axe throwing, even most parts of him argued he was perfect. Draven brushed his hair back with a hand, the silken locks spiked up with the lower portions pulled into a ponytail. He winked at himself in the mirror. "Gorgeous," he said aloud.

He opened the door to find quite the opposite. "Darius, my brother, what brings you here in such…dress," Draven trailed off, looking at the man from head to toe. Darius stood before him, bloodied and tattered. Dirt lined the edges of his armour and his axe was crusty with dried smears of blood. And that was just his clothing. He pushed past him into the house and Draven made sure to jump back to avoid any dirt touching his impeccable body. "I suppose you're coming back from a match."

"You are quite right, brother," Darius responded haggardly. He leaned his grimy axe against the wall, something which Draven frowned at, and walked into the dining room, a small room with a modest set of furniture. As modest as Draven could get. The older brother sat down on the nearest chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. The executioner followed and sat down adjacent to him, curiosity marking his features.

"So, what did you come to me for?" Draven asked, leaning back in his chair. He watched his him breathe in deeply.

"My brother, I'm going to ask you of something of great importance," Darius murmured, meeting his eyes.

"Of course," Draven said, taken aback. It was rare for the elder to come to him for help. It was more surprising because of the tone and manner Darius had asked him with. It was resigned and foreboding, thickly entwined in his gravelly voice. As much as the executioner played the dark humoured, narcissistic killer, he also knew how to play dutiful when dealt with it. Draven waited, but his brother only stared at him thoughtfully. "What is it—"

"I'm going to have to ask you to stop seeing the Piltovian boy."

Draven frowned and straightened up. "I don't—why does this concern you?" A completely genuine question. It was not to confirm the suspicions he did not have and it was not to rhetorically raise the answer to the responder. "Or is it that this concerns Noxus?"

Darius had a set grim expression, lines in his face deepening further than usual. His eyes confirmed the words that his lips would not admit to.

This was the last thing Draven expected to hear from his brother.

It had taken nearly months for Ezreal to convince his friends from Piltover that the entire thing was not a cruel joke. And another few weeks for him to convince himself. Draven ran a hand through his hair, not caring anymore that he was letting a few strands stray.

"I know you don't want to," Darius began. "But you must understand. I would never ask you do such a demanding thing unless it was extremely important."

"But Darius—"

"Noxus cannot have the brother of the Head General be so closely tied to someone from Piltover," Darius interjected sharply. "An ally of Demacia." He shifted in his seat. Thoughts circulated in his head, thoughts that seemed to soften his resolve. "I do not care that you carry such fondness for the same sex, my brother. In the eyes of Noxus—in the eyes of me—all you have to truly be is strong."

"But you're afraid Noxians will think you're soft or at least have a soft spot for Piltover through me," Draven remarked stiffly aloud, juxtaposed with an unspoken relieved thank you that hung in the air comfortably between them.

Darius hesitated, giving him a measuring look. The brothers held each other's gaze, years of familiarity infused in it.

They were orphaned at a young age.

It was not uncommon on the streets of Noxus. Through the show of strength, bravery, and fearlessness, many people perish, leaving their young behind to exhibit the same values. The elder, Darius, had fought long and hard for both of them to stay alive and together. Undefended children were victims, defended children were not. For many years of adolescence, Darius stayed resilient, up until Draven was able to fight on his own. Even then, Darius would not hesitate to aid him, like the parent he didn't have to fix his mistakes. He could have left his baby brother to die on the streets that night, or the many cold nights after, alongside the other impoverished Noxian children. It would have been easy. But he didn't.

"Yes," Darius said finally. His younger brother nodded absentmindedly and leaned back on the chair. The brothers sat, drenched in silence.

"It's very difficult," Draven started slowly.

"I understand."

"For me to do what you had asked me to do." Draven began picking at invisible dirt on his clothes. Nervousness under the guise of grooming. "Are you sure there is nothing else that could be done?" Darius rubbed his temple, adding more grime marks to his skin.

"I suppose you can hide it, but it's already a bit too late for that, isn't it?"

Draven snorted, reliving the countless surprised and disgusted looks he received.

"What's the importance of Piltover? What's happening over there in central?" Draven asked, not looking up from his picking.

"You know I cannot disclose that information to you," Darius said quietly. He looked away from his sullen brother. "I know this is challenging, believe me." Darius stood up from his chair, pausing by Draven to give his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll give you a few days to think about this." Draven lifted his own hand to cover his brother's, not caring for the flecks of dried blood and soil. "Draven. Thank you." The executioner felt a sharp pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach that he would never admit to. It was nearly unheard of for the Noxian general to express gratitude, rarer still for his brother. Draven just nodded dumbly and followed his brother out.

Darius picked up his axe and glanced over Draven once more before opening the door. He was met with the surprised face of Ezreal, whose expression suddenly contorted to cold hardness. Darius ignored and brushed past him. He could feel Ezreal's eyes burning two holes into his back.

* * *

_Author's Note: Wanted to give back to the community. The title is from Oscar Wilde's play "The Importance of Being Earnest". Zjol._


	2. Chapter 2

**The Importance of Being Ezreal**

_Chapter 2_

"What was he doing here?" Ezreal asked sharply. The words of the General were still fresh in his mind.

Unfazed, Draven motioned for the Piltovian to remove himself from the cold. His efforts were left unnoticed by the stubborn boy. Impatient, he opted to drag him in himself. "Just came over to talk about brotherly things, like Noxus and Noxus. Typical family stuff. You wouldn't want know," he replied, locking the door.

Ezreal scowled at him.

"Come on, let's go practice. Or spar," Draven pushed with a wild grin. "I'm itching for a good fight."

"No, I don't want to," Ezreal muttered. "Just came back from a match." Draven mock pouted at him, but only received a deeper scowl in return. He straightened up, face relaxing.

"Fine, what do you want to do instead?"

Ezreal shook his head slowly.

"Eat?" Silence. "Come on, work with me here," Draven pleaded. "We can go out for dinner. Piltovian food."

"You hate Piltovian food," Ezreal pointed out.

"I do, but you don't. What do you say?"

Ezreal thought it over, looking down at his gauntlet. It was true it had been a while since he had a bite of any homely foods. Draven had been showing off his cooking skills recently, it was better than his own, a whole lot better, though he would never ever admit that to the already egotistical man.

"Sounds good."

Draven grinned. "Great. Now go shower up because I'm not dragging around a bloody kid."

Ezreal allowed a corner of his lips to quirk. "Care to join me?"

Draven raised a brow. "If you insist."

* * *

"I don't understand how you could just let him go like that," Caitlyn muttered, taking apart her gun. Vi grunted and joined her at the kitchen table.

"Are we still on this topic? He's a smart kid," she replied. "I trust him to know what he's doing." Caitlyn shook her head.

"He's too young," she protested. "Way too young." She fell silent and rubbed a damp cloth over the pieces. Vi watched her, scratching her pink locks. "And it's not Ezreal I don't trust, it's him." Vi began pulling off her hextech gauntlets with a sigh and placed them on the table. Caitlyn shot her a warning glance. Vi quickly replaced the dirty gloves onto the floor.

"We've been over this, Cupcake," she said, straightening up. "Draven may be annoying, loud, and absolutely aggravating, but the kid sees something in him that we don't see." She paused and bent down again to flick specks of dirt off her gloves. "I'm willing to give him a chance. I mean, look at us. What did people say about us?"

"We were already a team," Caitlyn huffed.

"An ex-criminal and a goody two shoes sheriff of the police force?" Vi added. "That difference can't be less significant than a Piltovian and a Noxian."

"And I also wasn't nearly 20 years your junior," Caitlyn countered, wiping down her scopes. Vi shrugged.

"They're both adults."

"He's 17," Caitlyn pointed out.

"18. His birthday is this week. Did you forget, Cait?" Vi teased. Caitlyn looked up, concerned.

"This week," she repeated softly. She began to rub at her gun. Then she paused. "We didn't get a gift," she said with realization.

Vi looked away, feigning heavy duty brainstorming as she already knew what she wanted. "Let's have a party?" Vi suggested.

"Of course," Caitlyn said absentmindedly. She resumed cleaning, her brows furrowed. Vi watched with victory as she carefully folded the pieces back.

"I doubt Ezreal remembered," Vi said with a smile, thinking of the Piltovian explorer. He was always running around, scouting out new areas, ruins, or tunnels. Doing his explorer stuff with maps and old things. Vi wasn't too interested in the ancient, mouldy things. But Ezreal was.

"I doubt Draven even knows," Caitlyn said coldly.

"Hm," Vi grunted. "We should tell him. Plan a surprise party. Or something." Caitlyn shot her a glare. "I don't know!" The sheriff began putting her gun together, the pieces sliding together flawlessly. Vi watched cautiously, unsure if she should start running now.

"I don't want him around," Caitlyn said stiffly, getting up from her chair. She turned away from her partner.

The other woman breathed in relief. "Oh, come on now, Cupcake," Vi pressed. She turned in her chair as Caitlyn left. "Ezreal wants him around. Draven makes him happy. Let's just give him a chance. Just one." Vi heard rustling then the telltale clang of her gun being placed on the rack. The sheriff entered the kitchen again and placed a kettle on the stove. She turned around, chewing on her lip. She shook her head,

"No, I don't– "

"Come on," Vi pouted. Caitlyn looked at her, arms crossed, a hard look on her face as she weighed the pros and cons.

She really didn't want to face the man when she didn't have to. It was bad enough to face him on the Fields of Justice, with his arrogant mug and flaunts of skill. Now it came with the added discomfort about the harassment the collected Piltovians' had brought to him. Even Heimerdinger had something to say.

It was to be expected. Their relationship was not.

Caitlyn had revelled at the sudden improvements Ezreal had shown on the Fields. She had concluded he had finally spent some time practicing and that he was finally taking his role as a Champion more seriously.

Ezreal wasn't formally selected as a Champion, but in Caitlyn's opinion, that didn't mean he couldn't act like one.

Imagine her surprise when he had proudly told her yes, he did spend some time practicing, with a certain mentor.

Out of all the marksmen or markswomen in the League, Ezreal had chosen Draven. The Glorious Executioner. The boy didn't even begin by asking her first!

But the most surprising thing was not that Ezreal was being trained by Draven, but that Draven had agreed to train Ezreal.

She looked away from Vi and at her reflection in the kettle. Draven. Agreed to train some Piltovian child? Unbelievable.

The next was the worst. It was, again, surprising, but it was more disturbing than anything else.

She blinked then frowned down at her face. She was starting to get wrinkles from all the worrying. She lifted a hand to gently prod at it.

Disturbing was that the Noxian had the gall to court the young man. What would the boy know? He's too young! Taking advantage of him like that!

She had been an officer and the sheriff of Piltover for many years. She had seen men like this before. Being on the job meant seeing the worst of humanity at times. She was not naive. She looked over to Vi, who was still waiting on a reply. Vi, too, has seen people like him. Both as a police officer and as a former criminal herself.

But Ezreal did not have hurt or empty eyes when he had visited her to playfully boast about his most recent victories. It was happiness. And in his eyes, it was genuine. She has seen happiness before, as well. From recovering stolen goods to administering right justice, seeing happiness is also part of the job. It made life worth living. It was a part of the best of humanity. Would this do the same?

"Just this once," she said tentatively. Vi jumped up, surprising her, and wrapped the smaller woman in her arms, holding her tightly. Vi was right.

"That's the spirit!" she said, resting her chin on her head. Draven does make Ezreal happy, Caitlyn mused. "I'm sure he'll appreciate your efforts, Cait."

"He'd better," she said sourly with a small smile, the words muffled against Vi.

* * *

Draven hoped his brother could deal with his predicament, because at the moment, he could not.

Ezreal sat across from him in the car seat booth, eating his food slowly. Draven had poked at his plate for a bit, stirring the bits around, but decided to watch the Piltovian eat instead.

Ezreal eyed Draven's plate. "Told you," he said, gesturing at it with his fork. "You don't like Piltovian food."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Draven waved him off. "This is for you, not for me."

It was not like Draven had intended to back out of it, really, he was a man of his words. Ezreal's favourite meal, favourite person, his last supper. Then bye bye.

But it was hard.

But Draven liked a challenge.

* * *

"I'll walk you home."

The words rang in Ezreal's mind, shivering and refusing to dull into silence. Something about Draven's tone, his voice, or the current rare thoughtful silence, shook something in his senses. Perhaps it was the whole night in general, but Ezreal was quite sure the alarm was the loudest when Draven had offered to walk him home.

Home.

He had never offered that before. Most likely from Ezreal never having to return to home or wanting to return home, but still. Something in the back of his mind was troubling him, like a tiny voice of doubt, squeaking Darius' words like a prayer with its tiny hands clasped together. He caught Draven's watchful gaze washing over him before his hands reached out sideways and trailed down his arm, fingers feathering his wrist bone, smoothing over the curves of his knuckles, and finally curling Ezreal's smaller hand into his.

And Ezreal sighed contently squeezing their hands closer as his thoughts of doubt evaporated.

He hit himself over the head mentally for being on the edge still. This man went through thick and thin and Ezreal felt that trust was to be awarded. A tinge of annoyance struck a nerve, his brow twitching in remembrance. His dear friends.

Of course, he loved them. More than anything. They were kind and fun to be around. They reminded him of home as they share their beginnings in Piltover as well. Together, they have collected and told stories, stories that none other than Piltovians could truly appreciate and understand. The exclusive nature of their city-state made for a tight group of friends. A fierce, protective, tight group of friends.

Draven. They saw him as a threat, as a predator, as an enemy to be eliminated.

Caitlyn was the most enraged, her normally placid demeanour had flared up to furiously murderous. Ezreal attributed it to her vigilant motherly tendencies. It was frightening to watch her eyes narrow and darken with her stance straightening to a full posture of intimidation. Her years as an officer of the state had taught her a few moves, though Ezreal had wondered if it was the other way around.

Vi, he found, was angry as well. Her already edged words were slick with venom when she spoke to or about Draven. And Jayce seemed to have a say, though he seemed more apprehensive than the rest.

After a while, Ezreal found himself agreeing with them.

Because it was true, what they had said.

It was true Noxians didn't exactly have the best reputation, especially socially.

And it was true Piltovians, as longstanding allies of Demacia, did not take Noxian presence lightly.

And yes. Draven was old. Very old. But Ezreal had later concluded that he wasn't quite old enough to be his father, which he found to be oddly calming.

All these ate away at Ezreal's trust. Because yes, they were in a mentor-student relationship and clearly Draven somehow twisted the situation to benefit from it. In some way. That's what they said. And it was true, right?

And halfway through it all, Ezreal was sure the Noxian would leave. Absolutely, positively. He wanted to say he had hoped Draven would make the decision and never look back. But he can't. Because deep down, his insides were all knotted up for weeks, dreading the day Draven would decide that he has had enough.

Because Draven had become the world to him. He found himself attracted to his face, his body, and his goofy, egotistical mindset. And his confidence on and off the battlefield. His touches. His words. Every movement he made. His willingness to be attacked with glares and scowls, to be pelted with threatening words, just to stick around. Ezreal found himself in love.

They stopped in front of Ezreal's home, the evening breeze chilling them. The Piltovian gazed up at the Noxian, chest warm in the cool night, though beating rapidly in anticipation. I love you, he said in his mind. I love you, I love you, I love you. He wanted to repeat it aloud, without the stumbling of his tongue or clipping by his teeth. He wanted it loud, he wanted it clear, he wanted it heard.

Draven let go of his hand and gave him an apologetic look. "Hey Ez—er, Ezreal. I think we ought to go our separate ways. See other people. You know." He rubbed the back of his head, turning his gaze to a nearby street lamp.

The world stood still as Ezreal held back his words and cursed his luck. He struggled to keep his lips from shaking as his heart sank deeper into the pit of his stomach. "Yeah, sure." He nodded and hoped the lack of light revealed none of his dejected features or glassy eyes or how his hands trembled. Draven was still preoccupied with the street lamp, his hands now stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

Ezreal wavered from thoughts of "look at me" to "don't look at me", eyes threatening to blink and threatening to spill. He settled with the first and began to climb the short steps to the front door.

"Good night." He fumbled with his keys as his vision blurred. It had been a while since he had needed to unlock his own door. The cut metal felt foreign in his cold hands. "Thanks for walking me home," he mumbled thickly. He closed the door behind him, using every last inch of his willpower to not collapse in a tired and sad heap against the door. As he did so, he thought he heard a faint "no problem" from the other side.

* * *

_Author's Note: I've rewritten the first chapter as I wasn't too happy with it. Here is the second chapter. Thank you for the reviews. Zjol._


	3. Chapter 3

**The Importance of Being Ezreal**

_Chapter 3_

His bed sheets were coarse compared to the thousand thread count sheets Draven insisted on. He thought about replacing them with the some of his own, but decided against it as he didn't want to be reminded. He would just have to get used to it.

He swung his legs onto the bed and pulled the blankets over him, feeling the familiar motions kick into place. This was his home. This was his bed.

He laid there, waiting for sleep to overtake his mind, to drag him under to unconsciousness, to a place where he didn't have to think—where he couldn't think. He tried closing his eyes, just to see a glimpse of it. It was so close, right before him, just a step further. Taunting him. Just a few inches. Just reach out. But tightly packed between them was his troubles and he exhaled slowly, feeling anguish bubble in his chest, threatening to rise and to spill and destroy the odd peace he was in. He was numb all over with exhaustion, though his mind was alarmingly clear, free of emotion. Tonight, he will sleep. By morning he will rise. If summoned, he will fight. If not, he will train. Unambiguous, lucid, obvious. Simple was life now.

He opened his eyes and slipped a hand out of the blankets and ran it along the bedsheets, trying to feel, trying to take in the sensation of a real, physical object. Dismayed, he felt nothing. Closing his eyes once more, he finally began to feel the small licks of slumber that ran up to his shoulders before taking down his mind.

Here, in the suspension of consciousness, he floated. Silence was present all around, smothering him in it without the intention to let go. It was dangerous to be alone in his own thoughts. His eyes fluttered weakly, trying to wake from the dream. But slumber was too strong, relentless, and held him tightly, rasping out promises of eternal loneliness. It cradled him, making soothing noises juxtaposed with the horrors assured. Ezreal felt no objection to that and did not struggle. He let it take over.

* * *

"How are the decorations coming along, Vi?" Jayce asked, removing his boots. He leaned against the wall and unbuckled his footwear as Vi locked the door with a weary sigh.

"Bad," she said. "I'm not too good with this stuff." Jayce chuckled lightly, beginning to work on his other foot.

"Where's Caitlyn?"

"Food duty."

"Oh, wow, you guys already did everything," he said with mild surprise. He straightened up, frowning, "What's left for me then?" Vi smirked.

"You're on birthday boy duty."

"You guys know I'm not good at lying."

Vi shrugged and flicked a piece of confetti off of her shoulder. "Sorry, man. That's the only job left to do." She turned back into the living room to resume her decorating. "Anyways, Ezreal has been out of it for the past two days. Saw him yesterday, coming out of a match. Doesn't look like he was too preoccupied with thoughts of his birthday."

"He probably forgot," Jayce said with a small smile. He looked at the sorry mess she had made of the walls. "Wouldn't it better if I decorated?" She tossed a ring of streamers at him, defeated.

"Don't think you just got yourself out of birthday boy duty," she drawled, taking a seat on her couch.

He rolled his eyes and began tugging at the twisted ropes of colourful paper, trying to align the monster she had created. He turned back to the creator over his shoulder, "Say, didn't you guys want Draven to come, too?"

She sat up, alarmed.

"Right!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "I forgot!" Jayce turned back to the decorations, slightly frustrated with the tape. He tried to pry his fingers apart with little success. "I'll just go find him tomorrow. Or something."

"You don't look too enthusiastic about it."

She laughed, shaking her head. "And I was the one who came up with the idea."

"That's hard to believe."

"And harder to believe Cait had agreed, no?"

"I guess."

Vi lazed on the couch, clearing relieved that she no longer had to decorate as she watched Jayce. They chattered mindlessly, letting the peaceful afternoon consume them, engulfing them in comfort and warmth. The air soon began to fill with the scent of vanilla and Caitlyn came out of the kitchen, drying her hands. She took one long look at Jayce dutifully doing the job Vi had been assigned and then promptly chided her for it.

"Vi, get back to work. Jayce, dear, have a seat. I have some tea and biscuits, if you want."

"Oh, come on, Cupcake! Look how great of a job he's doing!" Vi said, reluctantly rising from her comfy seat. "Better than what I can do, wouldn't you say?" Caitlyn eyed the streamers.

"Yes, but it doesn't mean he has to do all of it himself. At least help!"

In an attempt to relieve the tension, "How is the cake, Caitlyn?" Jayce asked, stepping away from the wall.

"Probably delicious, but we'll see how it rises," Caitlyn said with pride. "Here, I'll go get the tea. Biscuits?"

"Yeah, bring out the chocolate ones with the cream filling."

"Not you, Vi. Jayce?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, please."

* * *

Vi stalked the halls, looking for a certain egotistical Noxian executioner. She had a match in a few minutes and had hoped to find the champion before needing to go. She rounded the corners, checking match histories and current games. A large, hextech finger trailed down a list of names. Kha'Zix, Malphite, Lucian, Annie, Braum, Riven, Syndra, Morgana, Jarvan...

"Bingo."

She ran down the marble halls, uncaring of the looks she had received. She saw the time stamp of the game, noting it had just ended. If she was fast enough, she would be able to catch the marksman before he would leave. What fortunate coincidence that she would be able to catch him in time. That meant she wouldn't have to go searching after her own match. Her gloves whirred gently as she made her way through the Institute. Just her luck, Draven had his back turned to her, his blades polished in crimson. She called his name out loudly.

"Draven!"

He turned around and Vi found wariness in his eyes.

Of course. She hadn't been exactly the friendliest person before, but that didn't meant she couldn't start now.

She slowed down to a stop. "Hey, Ezreal's birthday is tomorrow and we were wondering if you'd like to get in on the festivities. You know. Like a surprise birthday party."

He listened patiently with an empty look.

How unlike him, Vi mused. He's usually so loud and quick to quip.

Then he sneered.

"Don't know if you've heard, lady, Ez and I are no more."

Vi faced him, forehead slowly wrinkling, face contorting angrily. The air was heavy and still, acting as ear plugs as time slowed. The concept barely entered her mind and was processing in tepid ticks.

It was too surreal.

Too sudden.

Vi simply did not expect it. As some sort of sick penance for her lack of preparation, she was forced to respond by being locked in front of the executioner in stunned silence.

Barely breaking from her stupor, she squeezed her hextech fists, itching to punch him square in the face, possibly enough to permanently disfigure his pompous mug. But she didn't. Years as a criminal taught her the skills to fight, but years as an officer taught her the skills of self-discipline. Instead of resorting to the violence she thought the Noxian so fully deserved, she instead chose a few choice words that would have her great-grandmother spinning in her grave. She must have spilled them a little too loudly because the hall fell silent, everyone present looking away, all a little shaken and a little scandalized. He made a noise of amusement, victory twinkling in his eyes. Like he was inviting her to brutally assault him. With the dwindling self-restraint she had, she just snorted in response and turned away. The metal whined in protest as she squeezed them harder.

She marched with stomping steps, still cursing under her breath all the way to her summoning chamber.

* * *

Vi could not concentrate the entire game. She punched away at the jungle monsters, mind preoccupied, chest tight. Damn Draven. Damn, damn, damn him. Why couldn't Ezreal have his heart taken by someone more agreeable? He just had to choose a Noxian! The epiphany of evil, selfish, disg—

"Vi!"

She froze, whipping her head around to try and find the source.

"Vi? Hello? Gank please?"

She nodded dully and gave the wraith a weak, though fatal, punch before she made her way down the ramp to the side bushes of the centre lane. She crouched, allowing the green blades to shield her from plain view, unless a stealth ward was placed in there with her. Right. Her trinket. She lazily scanned the bush, her disinterest showing through her performance. She was much more interested on how to unleash fury on the Noxian.

* * *

Her mind slithered away to the depths of violence and anger as the game dragged on.

Draven headed home after a defeat. He decided that as long as he killed, it should never be considered a "defeat". So that was that.

It was difficult to say if he was affected by the breakup.

On the superficial level, certainly. He lost a good blanket warmer and someone to have sex with. Though, he was sure the latter wasn't hard to find. After all, he was Draven, the glorious executioner. Who wouldn't want to get with that?

There were more definitely more positives than negatives. The house was quiet. Not too terrible. Quiet was good. Calm was welcome. And there was more food to be found in the fridge. And leftovers lasted twice as long. And he didn't have to share the bathroom. Now, that's a good one. He now had the bathroom all to himself.

And Darius. He was happy. But this was more than just for Darius—it was also for Noxus.

But Draven felt a bit off. Like he had done something not too good. Although he would like to go on and on and on about how much he didn't care, he really couldn't find himself doing that. So he cleaned his axes and sharpened them, opting to not think and to not feel. Just the familiar movements of wiping down the blades and sharpening the edges. Then he polished the gold accents for a good measure. It had distracted him for a while, a good chunk of the day, but he was then left alone with his thoughts in his quiet home. And he didn't like it. Not one bit.

Because he had figured out what emotions were haunting him. The emotions that made him feel bad and terrible, almost like an insistent cold. It was guilt and shame.

Those two hung heavily in his gut and Draven found himself insufficiently equipped to handle them. Draven never had to feel bad, because he never did anything bad. Draven was synonymous with flawless and faultless. Faultless except for the deaths of certain Noxian prisoners on their execution dates.

Those were definitely his doing.

He stood, hanging up his axes and grabbing a light coat, deciding to visit his dear older brother. He hoped Darius had prepared dinner for two.

* * *

Surprisingly, Darius had prepared dinner for two.

But he wasn't thinking about Draven.

In his typical disregarding and spontaneous manner, Draven had bursted into his brother's domain, talking loudly about his bad feelings and asking, twice, what was for supper. It wasn't until Draven had caught the piercing glare Darius bore when he had finally noticed the other person in the living room.

Now, along with the guilt in his gut, his mind was suddenly filled to the brim with questions, questions, questions. His mouth refused to communicate with him, opening and closing with no sound emitting. This had continued for a while until he finally was able to muster, "Wow."

The silence that followed was heavy. No one said a word.

"This isn't a good time, brother," Darius said lowly between clenched teeth.

"I can see that," Draven quipped, nodding.

Darius looked tired. More tired than usual. Knowing the thick headed oaf that was his brother, Darius laid out the game plan in a very graspable manner.

"You need to leave. Now."

Draven finally looked at him, skeptical. He then crossed his arms and leaned against the door jamb, refusing to leave. "No, brother, you've got some explaining to do."

"I'll explain after."

"Nope. Now."

"Just leave."

"Tell me first."

"Draven."

"Darius."

Darius had never before felt a stronger urge to strike his brother.

"Draven, I swear to the gods, I will hurt you if you don't get out now." He enunciated the words quite clearly, his patience wearing thin.

"So, when were you planning to tell me?"

"Never," Darius answered curtly. "This is none of your concern."

"So why was mine?"

Darius inhaled deeply.

Then, the third party spoke. "Just tell him. He already saw."

"No," Darius replied.

Jayce looked irked.

Darius turned back to his brother in a low, controlled voice, "Please leave. You and I will speak about this after." Draven felt the dangerous and deadly atmosphere seep in. It had been hiding behind the tight leash Darius held on his own emotions. He was not a reckless man, not at all, though he can be more than a threat when given a reason to. Draven nervously leaned back in the tiniest of movements, careful to not provoke his brother anymore. Darius was a man of strength and Draven was not foolish enough to anger him more than he needed to. He risked a smug grin, though.

"Fine. I'll go." As he turned away, he shouted, "Bye, Jayce! Bye, Darius!"

Darius scowled, muttering as he shut the door in his face.

"Your brother is obnoxious," Jayce commented.

"Yes, I know." Darius stalked back to the living room, rubbing his hands on his face, haggard and annoyed by the interruption.

"I'm surprised you let him stay with Ezreal, he doesn't exactly keep it on the down low," Jayce mused, inwardly retching at the memories of seeing the two and their public displays of affection. Darius remained silent as he sat back down on the couch. A grim expression set slowly on to Jayce's face. "Unlike us."

"He's not with Ezreal," corrected Darius. "Not anymore."

"What?" Jayce sat up. "Since when?"

"Recently."

"I—why? Ezreal hasn't said anything..," Jayce trailed off.

Darius looked away, his dark eyes scouring his walls. Jayce glowered at him.

"Don't tell me—"

"Noxians can't be seen with allies of Demacia—"

"—or else they will be seen as weak," Jayce finished, irritated. "Darius. I can't believe you." He stood up, furious now. "I can't believe you did that!" Darius rose as well, his height and frame easily towering over the Piltovian. "Ezreal adores him!" Jayce fumed.

"And who were the first to give that child hell for doing so?" Darius countered hotly.

That silenced Jayce. He pressed his lips together, forming a grim line. Bitter defeat pooled in his eyes as he sat back down. What Darius had said was true. But because of that truth, it was all the more reason for Ezreal to be happy with whom he wanted.

That's what Jayce believed.

Against his own judgement, the Noxian man joined Jayce on the couch and placed a tender hand on his back. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "For all of this to go this way. You must understand." Jayce smiled weakly at him.

"But when is it my turn? When do you have to understand me?" he asked. It was unfair, he knew. And if Caitlyn caught wind of the relationship, she would certainly scold him for being taken advantage of. And do worse to whoever was taking advantage of him. Jayce was tired. He was so very tired. He was tired of having to hide and sneak around, like a rambunctious teenager after dark. He was tired of always having to be on the edge, like what he had with Darius was a sinful crime. He wanted freedom.

But he knew Darius would never allow it. The Noxian man was keen on rising up the ranks and insisted on a picture perfect profile. No weaknesses. No attachments. And definitely no romantic links to an ally of the enemy.

It made day to day living like hell. He wanted to be openly in love. To be able to kiss or hug the man he chose to be with. It wasn't the idea of public display, just the thought of having the option. Even just to see Darius was a hassle. They had to be so secretive, so discreet, and Jayce wondered if the effort was worth it.

However, what pained Jayce the most was having to lie. He was not a liar. He was an honest man by heart. But this thing he had with the Noxian required him pretend the thing didn't even exist. He had to lie in the faces of his favourite people. And that made him feel like the lowest human being on all of Runeterra. Or even the universe.

Darius just gave him an apologetic look. "I do not have the answer to that."

"I love you, Darius," Jayce began.

"I know," Darius pulled him into his arms.

"Repeat it."

Darius seemed to be stuck. He looked far off in the distance, inches from Jayce's ear. He hesitated, then in a low murmur, "I love you, too."

Jayce closed his eyes. "Then why do you want to hide it so much?" Darius began to open his mouth. "No, I don't want your typical political nonsense. I just want to know why."

Darius thumbed his shoulder thoughtfully. Then he pulled away. "Because I want better lives for my people of Noxus. And this is just something I have to give up to do it."

Jayce listened, trying hard not be offended. 'Am I not as important as the people of your city-state?' he wanted to ask. But he already knew the answer.

No, he was only one compared to the hundred of thousands in Noxus. His one life was not greater than that many. But deep in his heart, he just yearned to hear that, yes, to Darius, he was worth it.

Jayce raised a hand and held Darius' jaw, the stubble tickling his palm. He looked into the grey eyes, ringed with stress. He leaned forwards and kissed him. "This is a recipe for disaster, no?" he asked quietly against his mouth.

Darius nodded numbly before kissing him again.

* * *

It was morning and it was both Jayce's favourite and least favourite time of day.

Darius looked like he was still asleep, his normally tense face relaxed with heavy stubble on his cheeks. Jayce got up on one elbow and watched the other man sleep. Morning was his favourite because of it's soft light and promise for a brighter day. But it was his least, because that meant he would soon have to leave the Noxian. At least for another day or two. He ran a calloused hand across Darius' collarbone, feeling the ridges of the scar tissues aligned there. He followed a particular line that led to downwards, towards his navel. It leaned slightly to the left and Jayce trailed a light finger and then rested his hand on Darius' side where the scar ended. On the places of old wounds, body hair did not grow, leaving thin criss crosses of bare skin in the wake of all the darkness.

Jayce always found Darius' body fascinating, a hearty and strong living piece of history. That was Darius.

"Found what you were looking for?" Darius grumbled, voice thick with sleep. Jayce leaned down and kissed him. "You're up early." The older man craned his neck, looking for the time. "Barely sunrise."

"Couldn't sleep," Jayce answered honestly. He laid back down, chest resting against Darius' shoulder and arms slung across his torso.

Darius stayed silent, as if wondering about the consequences of asking for an elaboration. "Why's that?"

Jayce pressed his nose to the man's prickly cheek. "I've been feeling guilty."

"For? What have you done this time?"

The Piltovian smiled with little amusement. "About Ezreal."

"Hm."

"It's unfair that I get to stay with you, while my friend, who doesn't even know about you, has to go through a breakup," Jayce murmured, ashamed. "And here I am, in bed with the man I love, while my friend is alone for his first night. I'm not a good person."

Darius listened patiently without a word.

"I am, in fact, selfish," Jayce said. Darius rolled over and clutched the man with both arms. He couldn't find it within himself to disagree or agree, so he settled with offering comfort. Jayce took it without arguing.

To Darius' dismay, Jayce continued with the self-deprecation, "I should have told him to keep it secret. I should have said something."

Darius was surprised by how much the whole situation bothered the Piltovian. He had never said anything before.

The Noxian tried to offer further comfort. "If anything, I should have warned Draven. I learned of it too late," Darius reflected. But it was too late now and his brother would have to pay the price. Was he supposed to feel guilty as well?

He lifted a hand and combed his fingers through Jayce's dark hair absentmindedly.

* * *

In the evening came the time to have the talk with Draven. The younger Noxian begrudgingly opened the door and let the elder in. "Don't give me that look," Draven whined.

"Did you tell anyone?" Darius barked as soon as the door slammed shut.

"No," Draven said. He paused, fumbling with the lock. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Darius gave him dubious look. "Like you could keep your damn mouth shut."

"Hey!" Draven objected, slightly offended. "I didn't mention a thing of the situation with your friend thing."

"Eighteen hours is not a lot of time, brother," Darius murmured, unconvinced. He entered the living room and sat down.

Draven followed with great reluctance, "Oh, no, it's going to be a long talk."

"Sit down, Draven." There was a certain sternness in his voice, one that Draven couldn't bring himself to fight. It was impatient and humourless and the younger brother was familiar with it, having grown up under Darius. A part of him still feared it, though experience showed something different. He was brusque, but not entirely unreasonable. At least, that's what he remembered.

After weighing his options, which all did not exist, Draven conceded with a dramatic sigh.

* * *

_Author's Note: Playing with different styles, which may explain the lack of cohesion and awkward paragraphs. Hoping to finally grasp how I'm going to continue and complete this._

_Again, thank you for reading and another thank you to those who have favourited, followed, and/or reviewed. Gives me great joy that someone out there is at least entertained by my words. Zjol._


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